


Love Relinquished, Love Remembered

by AlessNox



Series: Gods, Myths, and Fairytales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Diogenes Club, F/M, Life Choices, Love, Memory, Other, Regret, Romance, Second Chances, Sex, Smallcroft, Trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-23 20:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10726497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: She had given him her card and invited him for drinks. Normally he wouldn't, but after staring down the muzzle of a gun he thought 'Why the Hell not?'A one night stand reminds Mycroft of a lost lover.





	1. Lady Alicia

“Lady Elizabeth.”  
  
“Call me Alicia.”  
  
He took a step forward and touched the side of her cheek. She tilted her head up and her lips parted slightly. Negotiations of the most delicate kind had led Mycroft Holmes into Lady Smallwood's private parlor, just one room away from her bedroom. She had given him her card and invited him for drinks. Normally he wouldn't, but after staring down the muzzle of a gun he thought 'Why the Hell not?'  
  
Her lips were papery soft, and her hair amazingly long when loosed from its bun. Normally she wouldn't, but her husband has been dead for some time now, and her bed has been very, very cold.  
  
He uncovered her shoulders surprised by her pink bra. He had predicted it would be white. The yellow river of her hair flowed across her pale back. Her skin flushed pink when he stroked it. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, carefully removing it and draping it on the back of the chair. She was a cultured woman who knew how to care for fine fabric. Her bra was made of silk.  
  
He undid the buttons on his cuffs thinking of his security guards. They knew where he was as did hers. They were likely talking to each other on the private channels, making jokes about the ice man and the porcelain doll. He didn't care. He was beyond giving a damn about what others thought of him. He had spent too much time abstaining from every good thing in life. Now he would demand something back. Life was too damn short not to take what was freely offered. God knows her security clearance was high enough that nothing he might say in the heat of passion would make a bit of difference.  
  
Her bed was large. The headboard made of corded and embroidered white velvet. He pressed his palm against it as he slid his body across the bed to touch her. He admired the pale skin and the deep pink of her nipples. Her body was remarkably preserved for a woman of her age, her waist long and thin, her skin tight. Despite what some said, she hadn't gone for plastic surgery. He felt no scars as he ran his fingers through her hair, no tucks as he slowly stroked her chest and thighs. She was incredibly limber. The benefit of a youth as an Olympic gymnast. He became self-conscious looking down at his rounded belly, his pale skin interrupted by an ugly line of brown hair. He was much less fit than she was despite the difference in their ages. And it had been years since he had had sex with a woman.  
  
He looked down and found that anxiety was not helping him to keep up his end of this agreement. Not long ago, he had investigated her unfairly, and yet she had forgiven him enough to let him climb into her bed. What would she think of him if he couldn't perform under pressure? Would he lose her support politically if he failed to rise to the challenge?

He closed his eyes to calm himself, and the voice of an old lover echoed in his mind saying, _“It's easy to steal dates from a man who thinks that sexual intercourse is only about penetration. I am uniquely qualified to know what pleases a woman.”_  
  
He remembered the feel of a hand covering his own, leading it on an exploration of the human body. He smiled as he echoed the movements that he had learned, a stroke up the side of the hip, a brush down the inside of the thigh, fingers dancing over pale hairs, the thumb landing on the nib below them, stroking lightly in a circular motion.  
  
_“Don't be rough, tease it out, softly, softly. That's how you get the ladies hot.”_  
  
His thumb stroked her lightly at first, then more forcefully. He was rewarded by a shudder and then a moan, his attentions letting loose a moist flow that coated the tips of his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together exploring the sticky wetness before tracing the tip of his index finger around the outside edge of her vagina. It was a wide canyon with a wrinkled edge and a long-healed tear on the right side. He worked two of his fingers carefully inside of her continuing his circular motion over her clitoris with his thumb.  
  
_“There are signposts that will tell you where the most pleasure comes if only you will take care to watch for them.”_  
  
He slid his fingers along the bumpy path inside her until he saw her abdominal muscles tighten, then he began thrusting his fingers deep, pushing against the wall as his thumb kept up its attack. She arched up and moaned, then she did it again louder. He pushed more of his hand inside her and watched, amazed as she lifted her knees to touch her forehead before spreading her legs out impossibly wide so that each kneecap stroked her high threadcount bedsheets. He took a moment to appreciate the posture before digging in deeper, pushing up against that point on her vaginal wall and watching her abdominal muscles ripple. She threw back her head and moaned again letting loose a flow that soaked his entire hand.

 _“What women won't tell you is that they are almost always unsatisfied by sex. A man is running a sprint while the woman is running a marathon. Get her started, and she'll beg you for it. She'll absolutely beg.”_  
  
Mycroft lowered his head and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the skin just below her belly button. He stoked one hand up between her breasts. Then he turned his head watching as the white skin flushed to pink. It was almost time.  
  
He pulled his left hand down and stroked himself. He had been so easily aroused back then. An echo of that feeling was filling him now. Then fingers touched his right wrist and he looked up into the arrow sharp eyes of Lady Smallwood.  
  
“Now would be a good time, if you please,” she said.  
  
Mycroft pulled himself up out of his memory and onto his knees. Without removing his right thumb from its circling, he reached for the bedside table and picked up the condom with his left hand. Unable to open the packet one-handed, he had to resort to tearing it with his teeth which had the unexpected benefit of causing Alicia's eyes to widen slightly as she sucked in a breath, allowing him to infer from the length of her sigh exactly how rough she wanted him to be. He pulled his hand off of her and stroked it down the length of the latex condom holding it as he reached out with his left hand to get a firm grip on her hip.  
  
He had been watching an old black and white Tarzan film when Wynn had whispered in his ear a stream of dirty stories about just how hard Jane liked it done. It had taken all his control to keep his composure in the crowded theater, and afterward they had laughed while beating their chests and flexing their muscles.  
  
Mycroft pulled Alicia across the bed pushing into her as he lifted her hips up off the bed.  She cried out, rolling her lips in her teeth and throwing her arms over her head.  He moved her with the strength of his arms. It was tiring for someone who never used weights, but she was not too heavy, and it was certain that it was something that she enjoyed.  
  
Sweat rolled down his face and his arms began to fatigue, but the volume of her cries did wonders for his ego. He wanted to thrust harder, to make her cry louder. He wanted security to hear and rush into the room. He wanted to see a touch of respect in their eyes as he passed by them the next day. Suddenly he found himself very close. He lowered her hips to the bed and fell forward, his hands landing on either side of her shoulders as he held himself over her, sliding in and out between her legs. He was surprised when she wrapped her legs around his hips pulling him deeper into her with every push of her heels.  
  
He came then with a long exhale pulsing and pushing as he filled the tube inside her. It had been so long, so long since he'd done this. His arms began to shake, and so he pulled back to sit on his knees, holding the base of the condom as he tried to catch his breath. He reached out for a tissue and wiped himself after carefully removing the condom. He tied the condom shut and dropped it into the trash bin along with the tissue before falling down on the bed beside Alicia. She had rolled to the side, curling up and clasping hold of her pillow. It was only after his own breath had quieted down that he realized that she was breathing oddly. He lifted himself up on his elbow and looked down to find that she was crying. She turned her head away then, digging her face deeper into her pillow which was becoming soaked with her tears.  
  
It shouldn't have surprised him, not knowing what he knew about her. She hadn't been with anyone since her husband's tragic suicide, and she was not the sort to have ever had an affair. For over twenty-five years she had only slept with one man. What must it feel like to have another man in her bed? Regret and loss have kept no one warm. He lay down on the bed and spooned up against her, placing his arm gently across her waist. She curled up even tighter, clasping the pillow to her face as she cried.

After a few moments, she quieted. She squeezed his arm. He took this as a sign that he could go, rolling out of the bed and grabbing his clothes as he passed into the bathroom.  
  
  
Mycroft was buttoning his waistcoat when Lady Smallwood walked into the room wearing a peach colored robe, her blond hair still loose upon her back. She handed him a small paper bag. He looked inside to find the condom. She had anticipated his concern for a lost DNA sample. He slipped the bag inside his coat pocket and said, “I take it that this will be my last visit to your private parlor.”  
“Yes, although you shouldn't take it as a reflection on your skill. I was most pleasantly surprised, but... it's still too soon for me. I think it will always be too soon.”  
“I understand. I am honored that you chose me for this.”

“Don't be. You were simply...convenient.”

Mycroft buttoned his coat. “I appreciate your honesty. Goodnight.”

He began to turn away, but she placed a hand on his shoulder “You knew before you left the bed that I would never let another man into it. In the same way, I know that you need someone in yours. Reconsider your opinion on relationships.”  
  
“Is that an order?”  
“A suggestion.”  
“Then I will take it under advisement.”  
  
She rose on her toes and placed a kiss on his cheek before stroking the side of his face. He leaned into her touch. Her face was pale without makeup. Her lips were like faded rose petals. He turned away from her, and walked out of the apartment.  
  
The mirrored lift doors closed, and he stared at his reflection. Would it be worth considering a relationship? He shook his head and exited the lift walking out to meet the waiting car.


	2. Anthea

At the office the next morning, Mycroft found himself staring at his assistant.

It was Lady Alicia's doing. He could hear her words in his head even now, _'Reconsider your opinion on relationships'_. The experience had been a strange mix of compliment and rejection, the way she had praised him and then said never come again. She had implied that she could sense his desires. Was he so very easy to read?

Anthea rose from her chair and leaned over the desk to take the documents before heading to the door. She was wearing a navy blue knee-length dress with an asymmetrical neck and matching pumps. A flash of beige heel showed as she walked toward the door. It was tasteful and conservative, a far cry from the way she had once dressed, in six-inch stiletto heels, tight dresses, and fur collars. Field work had cured her of all that. Now she wore more comfortable clothes that took stains well and still hugged her amazingly shapely body in all the right ways. The changes made her less overtly glamorous, but had revealed a classic beauty that was even more compelling due to the hints of intelligence that showed through in every design choice.

It was her intelligence that made her attractive in his opinion. Plenty of women could wear their clothes well, but no one else could have discovered the location of his lost brother on her cell phone while fixing tea for them both in an embassy basement that she'd converted in less than a day to look like his London office. Her help had been invaluable. What would she be like as a romantic partner?

Efficient, that would go without saying. She would remember every anniversary, plan every dinner expertly, but what could she see in an older man with a receding hairline and a weight problem? It didn't matter really, she had been dating one of his personal security guards on and off for the last two years.

He looked up at the question on her face...question? She had asked him something. He replayed it, “Is their anything else?” She had said that fifty-seven seconds ago, and he had been staring at her the entire time. She stood at an angle with one heel pulled up against the side of her other foot. She had probably learned the pose during the stint of modeling that she'd done while still in college. Was she posing for him? Did she guess what he was thinking? She must know when a man is considering her as a mate. How long had it been since he had seriously considered having another person in his life?

“That will be all, thank you,” he said, and with a nod and a turn, she was gone.

> _"Will you drive everyone away? Is that the future you see for yourself?”_

The thought came unbidden to his mind along with a wave of emotion that made him fall back into his chair remembering warm skin and soft hands wrapped around him as long fingers tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a thing that he had secretly loved. He wore his collars down afterward reveling in the touch of the breeze on his skin. The sea wind had chilled him then, but an electric touch warmed him again as hands pulled him down into the cabin, a firm chest pressing him against the wall, one hand undoing his belt as the other continued tickling his neck. A husky whisper filled his ear. 

> _"I'll spoil you for all the others.”_

He smiled despite himself because the words had come true. He'd never seriously considered another person as a life partner after that time so long ago. They had been lying in the tiny cabin of a borrowed yacht. His hand stroking a flat chest so different from Anthea's. He'd never thought of it as a preference before, but large breasts didn't entice him. That may inadvertently have been why she had so rapidly accepted his offer of a job. He hadn't stared at her breasts as almost every other man did when they first saw her. He had disregarded them and all the rest of her finery as unimportant to the job at hand.

Ah, the job at hand.

The job at hand was a trade agreement. The terms favored one political party, but they needed a different party to take over. He was to rewrite the agreement so that the party who proposed it would accept it, and yet afterward it could be used as a lever to lose them the next election. He had absolutely no desire to begin.

The yellow sun had shined off the tips of the waves, but it couldn't compare to the beauty of his yellow hair just as no sky could compare to the blue-grey beauty of his eyes.

> _"Caring is not an advantage.”_

Uncle Rudy's harsh words intruded on his thoughts, and Mycroft frowned. He twisted the ring on his finger imagining what Rudy would think about all of this. He would probably tell him that the night with Lady Alicia was a mistake, as would be a relationship with his assistant. He thought that business and pleasure should never be mixed. It was true for him as his form of pleasure was hanging out in bars dressed like Anthea in their earliest days together.

Mycroft picked up his phone. “I'll be going to lunch early. Please rearrange my schedule, and call the car around. Thank you."

He rose to his feet, picked up his umbrella and walked out of the room.


	3. White Roses

The rain beat against the car window making streaks that slid down the glass in predictable patterns. They flowed in rivers, parting and merging together again. He remembered water flowing in a similar fashion down a long pale back. Short blond hairs sticking together to make wispy curls at the nape of his neck. His hands dying to touch them. His body longing to press against Eric's round buttocks, the ones that he hid beneath loose cut trousers that were not the style, but somehow made him look like the dapper gentlemen of times past, especially when his hair was slicked back. Mycroft remembered how his arms had wrapped around him. His lips had nipped the side of his neck before moving to cover his smile.

Mycroft shook his head and clenched his fist. These thoughts were frivolous. He had to calm himself, to banish these pointless thoughts. He remembered a leather-topped desk lit by a green glass lamp. Rudy's stern eyebrows and piercing brown eyes boring into him.

> “Passions are pointless things. Useful for blackmailing your enemies, but dangerous to have yourself. You must control your own if you wish to control others. Gluttony and Lust can be used to lead you, to predict your actions. Others will go for these weaknesses first. If you want the world to be yours, you must deny yourself pleasure. Let your frustration fuel your drive. If you have no passions, then you will have no weaknesses.”

He'd never mentioned that desire for approval is also a weakness. Perhaps he'd given up too much in his quest to make himself into the man that Uncle Rudy had wanted him to be.

The car pulled to a stop. There must be an accident ahead. The driver would compute an alternate route and redirect them soon enough. Outside there was a flower shop. Its front window contained a large spray of white roses in a crystal vase. A memory came to him, sharp as the prick of a rose thorn.

A vase full of white roses on a bedside table. A loveseat draped with their discarded clothing. Beige sheets wrapped around them like ropes tying their bodies together. Eric's bright blue-gray eyes staring into Mycroft's. He pulled off the head of one flower and sprinkled white rose petals over Mycroft's back. Then as he reached across him, a thorn had scratched a mark on his shoulder that started to bleed.

“Sorry,” he'd said before dropping his mouth over the wound and sucking. His tongue lapping up the blood. The other hand wrapping around the soft arrow head of his penis as his thumb caressed the underside.

The car moved, and Mycroft turned his head to watch as the display of roses passed from his sight. Then he pulled out his phone and texted the concierge of the Diogenes. There would be a spray of white roses in his study after he dined. A steak for once, just the way he liked it.

Passions may be weaknesses, but a life without passion is a barren thing. He thought of Lady Smallwood's cold, empty bed. Perhaps it was time to reconsider the decisions of his past.


	4. The Diogenes

It was raining hard when he arrived at his destination. He passed through the doors, and the warmth of the place instantly relaxed him. The Diogenes Club was more of a home to him than his own house. It was a place of taste, tradition, and comfort, and it was blissfully silent. Once through the atrium doors, even the sound of the rain was only a memory.

He was informed, without words that his luncheon was prepared. He handed his coat and umbrella to the man and passed through the lounge on his way to the private dining room. He entered, and found his place already set. He would be dining alone.

The private dining room was by appointment only, and was usually reserved for founding members such as Mycroft. He took a moment to read the brass plaque situated just inside the door.

 

**_The Diogenes Club_ **

_Established for the enjoyment and comfort of the most unclubbable men in London._

_Long may it stand._

 

_ Founding members:  _

_**Bartholemew Ainsworth** _

_**Richard David Davies** _

_**Mycroft Holmes** _

_**Thomas Jones** _

_**Eric Wynn** _

 

It was in this very room that they had eaten their first meal together as a club, a much more meager one than today's meal of salmon pate and filet mignion. They were young men, not long out of university, with big dreams. The meal had been a simple one of fish and chip made more palatable by lots of wine.

Ainsworth sat at the head of the table as the club was his idea. Davies sat on his left in a striped coat and light colored pants that would be more at home at a rowing competition than a historic founding, and Jones sat on Ainsworth's right in his customary dark suit and bushy brown mustache, while he and Eric Wynn took up positions near the foot of the table.

Of course, Uncle Rudy had known about their plans before their doors were even open. He'd called Mycroft into his office that morning, and had him sit and wait while he rifled through his papers signing some and setting some aside to be destroyed.

“Although one must always keep an eye on foreign governments, complete domestic surveillance is the future. Soon there will be cameras all over the country, cameras at every intersection. We'll be able to see everything that goes on without ever leaving our desk. I expect you to master this system and control it, Mycroft. You do understand the cameras, don't you?”

“Yes sir. I am fully versed in all of the types of equipment that are being installed and their limitations. I have, on several occasions, been deployed to install covert devices.”

“That's right, the Russian tea room. That was you and...Wynn wasn't it?”

“Yes sir. That is correct.”

“You've been spending quite a bit of time with that young man, haven't you?”

“I often meet with former students from my university. It is always good to cultivate connections with those who may become important figures in the future.”

“Ah yes, your Friday night dos. I hear that young Ainsworth is planning to open a club.”

“Yes sir. May I ask how you know this? It was just decided last week.”

“I had tea with Lady Braithe two days ago, and she informed me that she had signed over a property to her nephew. She hoped that forming a club might settle him. Do you think that it will?”

“I believe that, he may spend a great deal of time there.”

“Good, good. And you plan to solicit members like yourself to join? Members from all of the different branches of government .”

“That is our plan.”

“Then I have an assignment for you. I want you to bug the building.”

“But, why?”

“I would think that it would be obvious. Such a club is sure to be a source of all sorts of gossip. You are a founding member of the club. You will be in a position to have listening devices integrated directly into the construction of the building. Show an interest in the remodeling, then plant the bugs. I expect to have regular transcripts of all conversations by the end of the month.”

“But sir. I can not betray the trust….”

“Trust! Trust did you say? Trust is what gets a man killed. Trust sinks governments. It is through accurate information that the commonwealth is protected, not trust. I expect you to take control of this surveillance network once it is up and keep me informed of everything happening domestically. Is my _trust_ in you misplaced?”

“No sir.”

“Good. I expect to see that report on my desk in fourteen days.”

 

Soup was served in a gilded china bowl. It was a far cry from the disposable plates of that first meal. They had sat around a tiny wooden table sharing food that one of them had picked up on the way to see this place.

Ainsworth gestured at the worn furniture piled against the wall. “You can see that it needs plenty of work before it will be suitable. I expect to have your help in the design, Holmes. No one else quite has your eye.”

“Are you saying the rest of us have no taste?” Davies said acting insulted.

“As you are responsible for this atrocious dinner that we are eating, I say yes, you have no taste.”

“You don't seem to have any trouble eating it.”

Jones laughed. “He means you have no taste for anything but clothes. Can't fault Dapper Davies on that count.”

“Heaven forbid!” Wynn said.

“The painters have already started on the west drawing room, but I'll want your opinion on colors. You will do it, won't you Holmes?”

Mycroft wiped his hand with a cloth and rose to his feet. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I must investigate the facilities.”

“Why can't he just say he has to take a piss like a normal person,” Jones said.

Ainsworth slapped Jones on the back of his head and said, “Don't be crass! I do believe that I have chosen to start a club with the four most unclubbable men in London!”

“Now that's a slogan we can recruit with! Pass the wine.” Davies said grinning.

Mycroft closed the door behind him, and walked out into the hallway. A few moments later the door opened again as Wynn joined him.

“Holmes, what's wrong?”

“Why would you think that anything is wrong?”

“Because I know you. Something about all this disturbs you. What is it?”

Laughter erupted on the other side of the door. They glanced back. Then Wynn grabbed Mycroft's arm dragging him further down the hall and into an empty room.

The door closed, throwing them into darkness until their eyes adjusted to the lamplight streaming in through the window. The furniture was draped with plastic. Several paint cans were stacked against the wall. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Eric said, “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“I know that face. It's the face you wear when you have to do something that you'd rather not do.”

“Perhaps, I simply don't have an opinion on the place.”

“Ha!”

“I didn't think that I was quite so readable.”

“You're not, generally, but I can read you. Why else do you think I always beat you at poker?”

Mycroft smirked. “It is quite irritating when you do that. For future reference, what exactly on my face gives me away?”

“Your lips. When you find something distasteful. The edge of your lip curls down. It's him, isn't it? He wants you to do something awful again.”

“It isn't awful, exactly. It is just a...conflict of loyalties.”

“Loyalty to whom?”

“Do you remember the Russian tea room?”

“How can I forget. We must have spent five hours waiting in that car before I found my way in through the kitchens. You left me trapped in that room for nearly half an hour. I had to hide behind a potted plant!”

“I was devising a suitable distraction. You know how much I hate legwork!”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Why do we do anything? To get ahead.”

“And what does he insist on you doing this time?”

“I'm to bug the Diogenes.”

“What!”

“Keep your voice down. It will be worse for me if he finds out that I've told anyone.”

"You can't do that to us.”

“If I don't, he'll have it done anyway. You know that once he makes up his mind he is relentless.”

“And you are a genius. You'll find a way to follow his rules without betraying your friends.”

“Friends? Men in our line of work don't have the luxury of friends.”

 

Eric stepped close then. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft who was standing very straight, and kissed his cheek. Mycroft looked down into eyes like polished steel. Then he pushed forward and kissed him hard on the lips. Their arms fumbled around each other as they tried to touch everywhere at once. One of his hands ended up combing through Eric's hair while the other rested on his firm behind.

Eric wormed one hand into Mycroft's pants while his tongue invaded his mouth. He tried to push him back against the wall, but Mycroft stopped him, patting his shoulder and pointing to the paint cans to remind him that the paint was still wet.

“Oh!” Mycroft said, eyes widening as an idea came to him, but all thoughts vanished a moment later when Eric dropped to his knees putting another use to that glorious mouth of his and causing Mycroft to bite his lips to keep from crying out.

When they returned, some time later, all eyes focused on them. Dessert was already on the table, and despite their having taken the time to arrange their clothes and comb their hair, they were fairly certain that the secret of their relationship was officially out.

Dessert today was a puff pastry just as it had been then. They had eaten the crumbly things while he proposed that the club demand silence of all members citing the time when the Kurdish ambassador had overheard classified nuclear codes during the cold war in 1972. It had taken some arguing, but in the end they had enthusiastically agreed. Mycroft sent transcripts to his uncle every week as promised. They were, for the most part, blessedly blank.

Mycroft rose and went to wash his hands before going to his private study. He entered to find vases of white roses placed all around the room. He lowered himself into a leather arm chair and closed his eyes. He breathed in deep, the soft coying scent relaxing him so much that he fell asleep.


	5. The Steward Green

On a chill Spring night, four men huddle around a table in a tiny low-ceilinged restaurant called The Steward Green. It is a little hole in the wall of a place down a back alley not far from the halls of Government where young civil servants could have a drink and a smoke on a Friday night. Two years after this meeting, the place would burn down in a kitchen fire and move to a much nicer location with higher prices and a more upscale clientele.

The men are in their mid twenties. They lounge around the table smiling as they pour another round of wine. The sound of their laughter rises to mix with the cigarette smoke that hovers just below the low-ceiling of the lamp-lit restaurant. Wearing a beige coat and a pale blue tie that matches his eyes, Davies commands their attention as he leans forward hand raised dramatically.

“So, he hands me his keys and his briefcase, and tells me to bring the car around while he goes off to chat with his mistress. His Mistress! I tell you, he treats me more like his valet and chauffeur than he does his protégé. He simply does not take me seriously.”

“It may seem that way,” Holmes says in a slow, weighted voice while gesturing with his lit cigarette, “but the very fact that he lets you see that side of him means that he trusts you. No, Davies, you are well on your way to becoming the next Transport minister.” He sucks on the cigarette and leans back in his chair. The bottom of his black striped waistcoat pulling up to reveal a bit of his white shirt as he runs a hand through his reddish brown hair.

“In fact,” says Wynn, a tall slim man with close-cropped blond hair, “One might say that by having you drive the car he is giving you direct experience in transport.”

The table erupts in laughter. “Good one, Wynn,” Jones says stroking his ruddy-brown mustache. “You should be lucky he takes you places. Mine barely talks to me at all except to ask for transcripts of his meetings. I think a tape recorder could do my job better than I could.”

“That could be arranged,” Holmes says in a mock ominous voice leading to another round of laughter.

Davies smiles. “It's hard to take you seriously, Holmes when your cheeks still have baby fat.”

“Now, now,” Jones says, “Baby fat or no, Holmes here will know all our secrets in the end.”

“Come now, Jonesy,” Wynn says. “After one night drinking with you, we all knew your secrets.”

“And so did half of the pub,” Davies adds with a laugh. “Holmes here is all right, and it doesn't hurt to be in good with the people who know all the secrets.”

“It's the _secret_ part that you keep forgetting,” Holmes says. “It's our job to know things, not to tell, so your job is safe. The minister will get no transcripts from me.”

“So, Holmes,” Wynn asks, “Are you saying that you aren't the type of man to kiss and tell?” Mycroft tilts his head and raises an eyebrow at Wynn whose pale grey eyes stare back at him with odd intensity.

“As a matter of fact, I don't. But that's an odd comment coming from you Wynn, considering you have stolen virtually every woman I ever dated while we were in Uni together. I should be asking you, 'Do you kiss and tell?' ”

“Only if you get me drunk first,” he says with a sly smirk.

“Really?” Jones says reaching across the table to refill Wynn's glass. “Then by all means, do tell us about your exploits. I can't be the only one here without any secrets. Did he really steal your dates, Holmes? I can see how. If we all had your boyish good looks, Wynn, we wouldn't be wasting our Friday nights in this dump of a place.”

“And yet, here we are!” Davies comments. “What surprises me is that Baby-face Holmes has had enough women that you can talk about Wynn stealing 'all' of them. I always thought of Holmes as a thinker not a lover.”

“You'd think so,” Jones said, “but Holmes has the most prodigious ability to attract real lookers. Didn't you go to the Commemoration ball with Penelope Chatham?”

“I did?”

“You dated Penelope Chatham?” Davies says raising one eye brow in a gesture of surprised respect.

“Penelope is an exceptionally intelligent woman which more people would know if they talked to her instead of slobbering as you two appear to be doing. She and I both share a dislike of mindless chatter. We had many enjoyable evenings together until Wynn here stole her from me.”

“And how did you accomplish that, Wynn?” Davies asks. “Just the outline, you don't have to go into detail.”

“I wouldn't mind hearing the details,” Jones grumbled.

“As Holmes said, Penelope is a very intelligent woman. She knows the peril of starting a relationship with a man who will always put her second. Everyone knows what Holmes truly wants.”

“I doubt that.”

“Of course we know,” Davies says “You are worse at hiding it than Jones here is at keeping a secret. It is your ambition to know everything. You want to be the power behind the British Government.”

“Not true,” Holmes says, “I want to BE the British Government.”

Davies starts laughing, and soon everyone joins him. He raises his glass. “A toast. To Mycroft Holmes, The British Government.”

“To Mycroft Holmes, the British Government!”

Mycroft nods sagely, hoping that his face isn't getting any more red. He looks around at them, his eyes landing on Wynn who smiles shyly as he sips his wine, his pale eyes laser-focused on Holmes. The door opens then, and Ainsworth rushes up to the table, his eyes glowing. “I found it!” he says. “I finally found it, a place to open our club!”

Then the room shakes as if in an earthquake, and Mycroft's glass falls off of the table to shatter on the floor.

 

He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. Mycroft had fallen asleep in his chair. Mycroft Homes looked around the study at the polished wood walls and the vases of white roses. He pulled out his phone which was vibrating in his pocket, and read the message.

**MEETING WITH MINISTER AT TWO. SHOULD I CANCEL? -A**

He signed heavily. It was already after one. He texted back.

**Yes. Please reschedule all meetings today, and send a courier with my files to the Diogenes. I will do my work here. - MH**

Mycroft fell back in his chair and breathed out. It had been a long time since he had thought about the days before...well, before everything. Before the Ice Man, before the inquest, back when he still had friends…and more than friends.

That night, Wynn had given him a ride home. That was the night they had first gone to bed together. He smiled as he remembered it. Davies phoned early the next morning to invite him to look at Ainsworth's club building. Eric had grabbed him then, and he had cried out, leading Davies to call him a sly dog for having pulled a woman after they all had gone home.

Mycroft lifted the arm of the chair to reveal a cavity containing a touch screen computer. He pulled up the Diogenes security report. These days they came only to him. He scrolled down the list and saw the name, Eric Wynn. He was still a member, of course. None of the founding members would ever be denied entry here. Wynn usually entered and left through the South entrance. He spent his time in the library and the billiard room where Mycroft never went, so for the most part, they never saw each other, not even in passing. Wynn was scheduled to dine here this evening, a late dinner in the private dining room. Mycroft bit his lip.

His phone buzzed again and he read the message. The courier had arrived. He put the screen away and rose from his chair. The courier had been instructed to only pass the briefcase directly into his hands. So Mycroft went out to meet him, closing the study door behind him.


	6. Eric

For the next several hours, Mycroft lost himself in his work. He imagined human connections as the bonds of attraction between water molecules in a cloud. He could see them moving, circling in predictable ways. This allowed him to view the world objectively without emotion. It was all just atoms and lines of force. It was fascinating to him, the way that power always was. Thinking this way helped him to forget himself. He became in his mind a web of human connections and consequences instead of a person. He could predict the best path ahead as if life was a game that he could win.

His skill at objectivity and prediction is what had led Uncle Rudy to hire him in the first place. He had recognized his potential, taking him under his wing and training him. His uncle had been an imposing and inspiring figure, and Mycroft had eagerly devoured his every word.

> _“Most people think that power resides in public elections, royal lines, or money. It doesn't. Power resides in people. True Power is the ability to influence and control the direction that humanity goes. There are only a few people in the world who wield enough power to get things done. I am one of those people, and some day, Mycroft, you will become one too.”_

Mycroft had learned his lessons well. He had become the most powerful man in Britain. Yet the more power he had to change things, the more he wanted things to stay the same. But he had discovered that keeping things the same was often harder than changing them. England was a sand castle, constantly being worn down and most of what he did was work to block the waves of chaos and rebuild again and again and again. It was a thankless job, and a lonely one, and when he finished working, he looked up to find himself in the room, alone. It hadn't always been this way.

The wind was chill when he'd left the Steward Green that night. He'd walked down the pavement looking for a place to hail a cab when he noticed Wynn rolling his keys nervously in his hand as he leaned against his car.

“Care for a ride?" he asked. "You look a bit done for.”

“Actually, I would appreciate that, if you don't mind.”

“Truly Holmes, It will be my pleasure.”

Wynn opened the passenger door to his silver Aston Martin convertible and let him in. Mycroft's face felt flushed. He ran his fingers across his scalp opening his eyes to catch Wynn staring at him again, but then he dropped his gaze back down to the controls and pulled out into traffic.

Mycroft closed his eyes, relaxing as the wind blew through his hair. He must have dozed off, because a few moments later he opened his eyes to find the car pulling up in front of his flat. Wynn jumped out and ran around to open the door for him. Mycroft blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and Eric reached out, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“You seem shakey. I'll walk you up to your flat,” Wynn said. His hand was very warm.

“Thank You, but I think that I can make if from here.”

“I insist.”

Mycroft pulled his hand away. “I really don't need...”

“Damn it man! invite me in. I've never seen the inside of your flat, and I'm curious as to what the finest brain in the service does in his off time.”

“Nothing unusual, I assure you. My home life is quite boring, but you are welcome to come up if you want, although I can't guarantee I won't fall asleep again.”

“That's quite all right. I like watching you sleep.”

Mycroft put the key in the lock and let Wynn in. Then he checked the counter that measured how many times the door had been opened. He was quite serious about his own security, even then. He looked up to find Wynn slowly walking around the room examining everything: The small but tasteful loveseat, the desk and swivel chair, the shelf of awards and curios, his chessboard, his bookshelf. He bent down to examine the titles, running his finger along the spines of texts in Latin, Greek, French, German, and Chinese. He stopped at a cluster of new books, and looked up.

“Modern Psychiatric practice, Dealing with addiction, Psychiatric drugs and their effects? Why Holmes, I never knew you had a drug problem.”

“I don't, but my little brother does. I try to keep informed.”

“Your brother... Sherlock was it? I remember. You left mid-term to see him and didn't return for a month. I always wondered why.”

“My brother ran away from home. He was missing for weeks before I found him. He's better now. Even so, I do like to visit from time to time just to keep an eye on him. I worry about him.”

Eric smiled. “You're a kind man, although you try to hide it.”

“Well don't tell anyone, or you'll ruin my reputation.”

“I will keep your secret if you will keep mine.”

“What secret is that?”

“That I...I like to be called Eric, not Wynn.”

“Is that a secret? Come now, you can do better. You'll never make it in politics if you drive such weak bargains. We've certainly known each other long enough to use first names.”

“Of course, My-croft.” Eric said stressing the first syllable. “Penelope told me why you took her to the ball.”

“She did?”

“I asked. She said that Wintrope had taken a fancy to her and was insisting that she go to the ball with him. She asked you to go because you were the only man in the class that Wintrope is afraid of.”

“As I said before, Penelope is an exceptionally intelligent woman. So, are you ready to tell me the real reason that you asked to come to my flat. You have something that you desperately want to say to me.”

The edges of Eric's lips turned up in a stiff smile. “You're a sharp one, Holmes. I was trying not to be obvious.”

“Really? You've been staring at me all evening, holding my hand too long, rolling your keys, and rubbing your knuckles, which is a particular nervous tell of yours. You really ought to consider putting your hands in your pockets. And then there's your insistence to escort me to my flat. If that was your attempt not to be obvious, you might consider giving up field assignments. So, what's on your mind?”

“I thought that it was your job to discover what's on my mind. You're in intelligence after all.”

“Is this a game?”

“If you like. Tell me what you know about me.”

Mycroft smiled. He walked slowly around Eric, looking him up and down. “You are an only child. Good marks at every school you attended, but never the first or even second in your class. This is not because you cannot excel, you can, but you prefer not to stand out. You value your privacy. Not big on group sports, though you are athletic. You did competitive tennis for several years but gave it up after an injury. Shoulder or knee? You injured both, but... the knee was the one that caused you to stop. You also studied archery. You have calluses on your thumb, so you still practice regularly.

“You are loyal. Well liked by both men and women, and… you are bisexual. Your eye is at least. You appreciate physical beauty, but you are even more attracted to intelligence. Despite your popularity, you've had no serious relationships. You consciously keep yourself apart. Although you were born abroad, you rarely travel. Mostly you commute between your flat in London and your family home. You usually stay there on the weekends, although you are in town this weekend. I can't imagine that it was just to visit me. Perhaps, you have work. Perhaps, it has something to do with the fight that you had today with your mother.”

“How did you know that I had a fight with Mother?”

“When you opened your phone, there were five calls from your mother. You visited your parent's estate today. I noticed the wet mud on the car rug, so you left work early to visit them. It wasn't a family emergency. You would have stayed home if you were worried about your mother's respiratory problems acting up again. But if you had visited your mother recently, why did she call you five times? And why didn't you respond? You didn't bother to call back because you already knew what she was going to say. Thus, you had an argument with your mother. You told her of a decision you had made, and she objected, strongly.

“But if this decision was so urgent, why didn't you talk to me immediately? I don't understand what would cause you to drive all the way back to London just to waste three hours at our little drinking party? Nothing of note happened today except for the proposed club, and Ainsworth looks likely to invite half the civil service to join before we've even finished painting the place. So, I am at a loss. Why did you come back?”

“I came back because, once I make a decision, I stick to it. I've decided to say something to you this evening, and even mother's hysterics weren't enough to stop me.”

“Then, by all means… tell me.”

“Might I have a drink first?”

“Oh pardon me, I should have offered you something when I arrived. Scotch?”

“Just water. My mouth has gone dry.”

“Just a moment.”

Mycroft walked into the kitchen and pulled out a glass. He filled it with water from the tap and took it to Wynn who was now sitting stiffly on the loveseat. Mycroft contemplated pulling his desk chair over to sit across from him, but decided to sit at his side. Eric took a sip and then ran his fingers through his close cropped hair before placing the glass down on the table.

“Mycroft, we've known each other for some time now.”

“Over three years.”

“And we've worked well together, like at the Russian tea house.”

“It was a successful mission. Some valuable intelligence has been gathered using the bugs that you placed. But the hours we spent waiting in the car I found extremely tedious.”

“I didn't find it tedious...that day, sitting side by side, just the two of us. To tell the truth, I quite enjoyed it. In fact... I wanted to kiss you then.”

Mycroft turned to face him. “You… wanted to kiss me?”

Eric stared directly into his eyes, “I still do.”

Mycroft exhaled. He could feel the breath flowing over his lips. Eric licked his own.

Mycroft ran through his memories of Eric, who was always sitting next to him, always going wherever he asked. This wasn't the first time he had stared at him this way. Why had he never noticed before? He had always found him handsome. Lovely even, but….What would it be like to...? Perhaps he could just....

Mycroft leaned forward slowly. His head tilted slightly to one side as he touched his lips to Wynn's. He sat back, to find that Wynn's eyes were closed.

“Oh!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Is that why you kept stealing my dates? You didn't want the competition?”

“I couldn't stand to watch them touch you. I hated that they could do it when I couldn't.”

“I wouldn't object if you wanted to touch me now,” Mycroft said.

Eric swallowed. Then he slid his arm across the back of the loveseat so that it rested on Mycoft's shoulders.

Mycroft slid his arm around Eric's waist. Their eyes locked. Mycroft was captivated by his pale blond lashes, so long...much longer than for most men. Eric had very delicate features, small ears, well defined cheek bones, a small nose, and dangerously distracting lips. Had he ever really looked at him before? The rounded shape of his jaw and the narrow line of his neck...

“Oh, Eric!” Mycroft said eyes widening. “Don't tell me that you...”

“We'll talk later. Kiss me first.”

And he did, pressing their lips together, and then opening to feel his tongue. A slide and a wiggle and his was on top, thrusting into Eric's mouth, thrusting and sliding as Eric pulled his body closer. Mycroft lowered his hand sliding down Eric's slender waist to rest on his perfectly rounded ass for the first time.

 

Mycroft flushed, the papers on his desk forgotten as he lost himself in the memory. Eric was like no one else. He had never known such cautious and devoted exploration as they had done together. The way his hands demanded to touch every part of him, from the smooth firmness of his muscular chest, to the soft roundness of his perfect behind. The pale stubble that grew above his lip, and the warm, wet vagina between his thighs.

He'd whispered his secret into his ear as he lifted his penis away and placed it on the desk beside the bed. He liked to be called Eric, but his name at birth had been Erica. He had been born a girl.


	7. Chapter 7

Eric had told his parents that he was male at the age of six, but it had taken several years of argument and an inheritance dispute before they had agreed to let him take hormones to block the worst of puberty. Fear that a public reaction would harm his father's career had meant that he must inform his parents before telling anyone else, thus his mother's hysterics. She need not have worried. Secrets were Mycroft's stock and trade, so he had no problem keeping the secret that Eric had been born a girl. He did, however, find it impossible to keep from thinking about him, constantly.

Thoughts of Eric burned through his brain. He had become his obsession. The briefest glimpse of him was enough to fill him with desire. He would start a count down clock in his head, computing how many minutes until they could be alone again. Evenings usually spent on work were spent making love in his flat, or on the yacht, or even once in the changing room of Eric's tennis club.

Every part of Eric was perfect: His warm, wet mouth, his smooth, pale skin, his slender fingers, his pale blond hair. Wrapped in each others arms, it was obvious that they were made to fit together. He had never felt more welcome than when he was inside him. Never more appreciated, never more loved. And they would talk for hours, about things that were important to them, and things that meant nothing.

“I think Penelope knows.” Eric said as they lay together in the bedroom of the bungalow on his parent's estate. “She said that if anyone in the world could keep a secret, it would be you. She was the one to tell me that I should talk to you, that I should tell you how I felt.”

Mycroft stroked the skin of Eric's chest, his finger circling his nipples. He asked, “And how do you feel?”

“I love you. But, it took years for me to approach you. Sometimes it takes a long time to realize what you need.”

Mycroft smiled. Then he kissed him deeply, holding him close. They were so right, so comfortable together. He should have known that such happiness was not to last.

 

He was called into Uncle Rudy's office one evening. He had plans to meet Eric after work, an intimate dinner at his flat, so he checked his watch before going into the office and sitting down.

“I told you that I wanted you to get the new position in the foreign office.”

“I will. I'm working on it.”

“You've lost it. They've decided to go with Walsh.”

“But, I was assured that...”

“I heard them talking after the meeting. They will inform him today of his position.”

“But...”

“If you had been at Tuesday's Planning Meeting, then you might have been able to change their minds, but you weren't there.”

“I was … investigating something.”

“I know exactly who you were investigating. You've lost focus, Mycroft. You've lost touch with what is important. You've let petty concerns distract you from the goal. When I agreed to take you on as my assistant, it was under the assumption that you had the desire to reach the very highest levels of power. Was I wrong in that assumption?”

“No, Uncle.”

“And yet you let yourself get distracted.”

“I would think that my relationships are my private business.”

“Then you would be wrong. Any attachment is a weakness. Any emotional tie can be used as a lever to manipulate you.”

“I can still change their minds. It hasn't been publicly announced yet. I can show my worth, get the job back from Walsh.”

“Don't worry about the position. I've already handled it.”

“But you said they chose Walsh.”

“I said that it has been handled. What you need to do is be ready to take the position when they offer it to you. You must make sure that you have no bonds that others can take advantage of.”

“I can have a relationship with Eric and still do my work.”

“Perhaps if you had been more discreet, you could have held on to it a bit longer, but any known bond is a liability.”

“What about my bond to you, Uncle. Is that also a liability? Would I even be here if there had not been a bond of blood between us?”

“Bonds of blood have relevance because they cannot be hid. They are obvious weaknesses, and so they must be controlled. You and your family are a liability to me. Those who can not get to me directly may try to find a path through you. I limit the danger by limiting the interactions of those closest to me.”

“So I can't ever have friends or lovers?”

“Not unless you are willing to lose them. Power is about control, and if there is anything that you value above that power, if there is anyone important enough to you that you would give up your power to ensure their safety, then others will take advantage. You will never be able to hold true power, until you are willing to give up everything and everyone to get it.”

“Come now. You wouldn't let my mother and I die simply to keep your power, would you?”

His uncle stared at him with a face devoid of emotion, and Mycroft saw a coldness at his core that he had never glimpsed before.

“I will only say this once. End this thing that you have with her, or I will.”

Mycroft rose to his feet. He clenched his hand in anger, but he could think of nothing else to say.

“You can go now,” Uncle Rudy said “And Mycroft, I expect you to rededicate yourself to your work from now on. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” he said, and then he left the room. He was halfway back to his office before he noticed that his uncle had had said “her”.

 

That night, they made love in silence. He couldn't bring himself to say his uncle's words out loud. Eric slept with his arms wrapped around him, but he couldn't sleep. He wondered how his uncle planned to do this. Would he tell the world Eric's secret, open his family to public scrutiny? Or would he talk to Eric directly.

Early the next morning he received a phone call offering him the foreign office assignment. Walsh had been offered the post, but he had rejected it after a car crash had ended the life of his wife and tragically paralyzed his son. Mycroft slowly lowered the phone. His uncle had never been more clear.

 

“It's over.” Mycroft said at breakfast.

“What is?”

“You and me. I don't want us to meet anymore.”

“You don't want...” Eric put down his fork. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I'm just tired of it. I did enjoy the novelty, but you must have realized that this ... relationship was only temporary.”

“Mycroft. Is this an act? You don't talk this way.”

“The words came out of my mouth, I can assure you.”

“But...it can't be over.”

“And why not?”

“You love me.”

“I never said so.”

“But you did, in every look, every embrace.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You sound like a romance novel. I should have known a girl like you would get sentimental. Surely you guessed that our public courtship was performed simply to gain the approval of the foreign minister who is a closeted gay man? Your revelation was incredibly convenient. It allowed me to look gay without having to approach a real man. I was willing to play this game with you for a while, but I've been promoted, and I don't need to be seen with you anymore. Besides, another exposure like we almost had in the tennis club, and the secret would be out. We can't have the minister finding out that you're a girl, can we?”

“I'm not a girl.”

“I thought I was being clear. I don't want you. I don't do relationships. The only thing I care about is my career.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you wish. I'll be moving into my new office soon, and I won't have time to waste on nonessentials. Please tell the others that I will no longer be coming to drink on Friday nights.”

Eric drew in a shaky breath.“This is your uncle isn't it. He's making you do it.”

“Believe that, if it makes you feel better.”

He rose to his feet then, taking his plate and Eric's to the sink to rinse and put in the dishwasher. He washed and dried his hands and then went to the rack to pick up his coat and umbrella.

“I need to go now if I am to get to work on time. Please take your things out of my flat, and don't forget to lock the door on your way out.”

He opened the door and froze. Eric had grabbed his arm, his head rested on his shoulder.

“Please, love...don't let him do this to us.”

Mycroft couldn't look at him. He knew that if he saw his sad grey eyes, he wouldn't be able to go through with it. He lowered his voice and said, “You know who I am, Eric. You know who I plan to be.”

“Will you drive everyone away? Is that the future you see for yourself? Is your plan to spend the rest of your life alone?”

“Goodbye Eric,” he said pulling his arm out of his lover's grip. Then he left the flat, closing the door firmly between them.

The rest of the day he was in a haze. He'd floated through meetings and formal introductions, but he couldn't help thinking about Eric. How he felt, what he was doing. He half hoped to find Eric waiting at his flat when he returned, but it was empty. All of his things were in their proper place, and all of Eric's things were gone. His spare key sat on the table beside a note that read simply...

**When you are ready, you'll know where to find me.**

 

It was late. Mycroft gathered up his papers and put them into the safe. He opened his laptop and reserved an upstairs room. He would sleep here tonight and get an early start in the morning.

He headed for the door. If he hurried, he might just be able to get dinner before the kitchen closed. Then he looked at his watch and froze. Someone else had reserved the dining room this evening.

It had taken becoming the most powerful man in Britain to teach Mycroft what he should have known all along. Political power can get you many things, it can build cities, and move armies, it can give you possessions, and the ability to control the life and death of millions, but it can not take away your loneliness, and it cannot give you love. Sometimes it takes a long time to realize what you need.

Mycroft pulled a single white rose from the vase. Then he walked through the club until he stood outside the door to the private dining room. He could hear the sound of dishes being placed, and glasses being filled. Eric Wynn was having dinner.

He put his hand on the handle.

Finally, he was ready.


End file.
